Copperhead
by OfTheDamned
Summary: Major Jasper Whitlock feels too young to be an officer in the War Between States, and can hardly stomach the killing. When he runs across a like-minded soldier hiding in the darkness, he finds the companionship he never found with his own men. Slash.


**Hefty A/N: I wrote this story for ydidred for the Fandom Gives Back Author Auction.**

**ydidred won this fic, and then was kind enough to give me endless freedoms with it. First, she gave me as much time as I wanted, which is why the auction was months ago and you're only just seeing it now. Also, she let me choose my own storyline, which was amazing because I've been wanting to write this for a while. However, many of you will be pleased to hear that since she originally asked for a JPOV from Your Biggest Fan, the freedom to write my own story came with a promise to write some of Jasper's outtakes when YBF is all done.**

**Stephenie Meyer owns all, I just play.**

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**Maj. Jasper Whitlock, 75****th**** regiment, Confederate States Army**

**Five Forks, VA, 1865  
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I knocked my boots against what was left of our small fire. The Virginia winters were harsh, and I reckoned this one coming up would run us all through the mill. It was already October and while there wasn't any snow to see, it was mighty brisk out. In the colder months, I always did my best to warm my feet before my nightly perimeter checks. I knew they were mostly unnecessary – I could have a Private or First Lieutenant take the risk for me. And I did. I just preferred to take the walk myself, too.

As their new Major, I knew I should be sharing their campfires, reminding them of successes and plucking the sinuous threads of insecurity out of their minds and hearts. The Colonel was a damn fool to put me in charge of such a raggedy bunch. He could praise my charisma and strategies until the mares had new foals, but I still wouldn't know any better how to deal with the worries and aggression of so many displaced men. Boys, really. Their anxieties weighed on me. Whether they were dreading the battle or braggin' with the last vestiges of their own bravado, the stink of their desperation choked me like the smell of burnt flesh itself.

There were basically two kinds of men in my regiment. The first kind was only good for rabble-rousing. Those blowhards lived to put bullets and pig stickers into Yanks, and would tell you as much every chance they got. The other kind were just scared bummers: scared to die, scared to live, scared that when they got home their sweethearts would have left 'em for some other young feller back home. They cowered and hated this war, much as I did, but shot at everything that moved and only feared for their own hides. None of them understood how I hated to stick another man with a bayonet. The sheer horror in their eyes and the death rattle that reverberated from their throats and through my mind haunted me for days after.

The closest thing I'd found to a friend out here was Forbes Peterson, one of my Captains. We called him Pete. He'd traveled around with his Pa as a boy, giving him more worldly insight than most of these soldiers had, and quite an interestin' accent too. I didn't think he'd ever come right out and say it, especially to his commanding officer, but I knew he hated aiming a musket at another man as much as I did. I wasn't sure exactly why that was – maybe he had some friends in the Union armies, I didn't know.

Even he, though, still believed this war was worth fighting, a necessary sacrifice of men and labor, whereas I… I just couldn't condone anything that caused so much pain. Surely, there was some other way.

I loved my men, loved them like I loved Rusty, the dog who used to follow me faithfully around my Daddy's plantation. They both came when I said come, heeled when I said heel, and fought when I said fight. That didn't mean either of them were any good for conversatin', though, or commiserating. 'Cept Pete, and sometimes even he was no good.

So at night, when both us and the Yanks were settling down to catch a nap before the strategizing started back up, I'd take a little walk. It seemed to help keep morale high. Men liked a leader who was willing to put himself at risk, instead of ordering others about to die for them, especially since I was so young. Some of the older men spent their time bellyaching about serving under a 'jackanapes' and a 'paleface who ain't seen anything yet', but I figured I'd been a good leader so far, so they could just shut their traps.

Still, though, I just couldn't find any peace, listening to all their talk. And that was, of course, the second reason I walked the circuit at night. It got me out of camp, away from the over-confident war cries and hushed whispers of the other men who had been tossed into this ruckus with me. Sometimes I wanted to drop my weapon, throw up my hands and tell them all to go home – to run home, to where they were safe and loved.

I couldn't, though. I was their leader, and they trusted me to carry them through this war. So no matter what thoughts spun through my head in the privacy of the darkness, I still found myself back at camp before morning, eager to assuage the mens' fears and encourage their bravery, ensuring me their loyalty for one more day.

I had trudged past the tree line to a place I had long ago learned was sheltered from the wind, the pack mentality of my own men and, usually, from the prying eyes of Union scouts. The sky was already black – black as only battlefields can get. As black as war. Even the gasping fires in the periphery of my vision only made the Virginian night look ready to swallow me up, the way the shadow of an owl is just more darkness until the mouse is in its claws.

When I first saw him, it was only by a narrow ray of moonlight that dashed across the shoulders of his muddy coat. He was obviously fiddling with something, but I couldn't see what. Everything before me was dimmed to a dull monochrome. The pale sliver of his neck was a lighter shade of grey than his dirtied collar and his unkempt hair. I blinked several times, trying to make out more details, but it didn't help any.

My first thought was to give him a good lashing and order him to report back to camp so I could have my solitude, but I knew I wouldn't. When I walked away from camp I left that kind of mindless aggression behind me. Besides, I wasn't sure he was one of mine – from the size and set of his shoulders, I hadn't met this soldier before.

If that were true, I didn't know what he was doing so close to us. Perhaps he was a deserter? That would explain why he was crouched here between the trees, instead of moving towards the fires that were so obviously visible in the distance.

Still, though. If he was a stranger, I'd best be wary. I tried to circle around the small clearing he had settled himself in, but my approaching footsteps gave me away. He spun, startled and wary as a lost colt, and part of his face shifted into the small patch of moonlight.

His eyebrows were high and his mouth hung open in surprise. In the moonlight, his eyes reflected an eerie silver and I could clearly make out his sharp features.

No, he was definitely not one of my men. I would remember someone this… striking.

His hands stilled and I could see him begin to panic, unable to see me behind my cover of night and tree trunks, so I stepped into the clearing. Having me in sight did not seem to ease his concern and he remained frozen, staring up at me with wide, frightened eyes.

After a long pause, in which I waited for him to declare himself and he gaped on, he whispered, "Are you going to shoot me?"

Moving a hand to the pistol at my side, I reckoned I could shoot. No one took kindly to deserters, and I'd be well within my rights. It gave me enough of an upset to shoot a Yankee, though, and it seemed like a waste to shoot one of my own.

Besides, I didn't blame him. Maybe I would run too, if I had a good enough reason to.

I stood doused in more moonlight than what little splashed on him. His eyes tracked to my hand, resting carefully against my gun, but he relaxed some when I shook my head.

"I'm sorry, sir. I just, I was so cold."

I nodded; I could hear the shiver in his voice. Probably tired too. His voice also made him sound young – younger than me, and maybe not even twenty years old yet. He didn't seem like much of a threat, anyhow.

I was about to offer him a seat at one of our fires when he shifted so that the sliver of moonlight shone past his face to where his hands lay, tangled in the laces of a pair of boots – boots that were still tied onto their owner.

Alarmed, I moved towards the body, but the boy stumbled backwards, away from my approach and into the darkness. I toed the leg of the body, wondering if he was beyond help. The body was still loose, but I nudged it harder and he made no response so I figured him for dead.

Now I didn't know who this other feller was or what he wanted, but he was doing a shit-poor job of gaining my trust. I slipped my gun from my side and pointed it in the direction he has stumbled to.

"What happened?" I asked, but he didn't answer. "Did you do this?"

"I'm sorry, sir!"

I'd met men like him before – the cowards who apologized for anything so long as it wouldn't get them killed – and I was in no mood to deal with any deadbeats. "Sorry is not an answer, soldier. What did you do?"

"I didn't mean to," he called back, his words tainted with anguish like tobacco soils your tongue. "It, it was an accident."

Excuses. I had heard plenty of excuses before, so I kept my gun aimed at the sound of his voice.

"What happened?" I demanded again.

I could hear him wheezing in the cold night air, either to build up his courage or pick out a fib, but he finally began talking.

"I know I shouldn't be here. I've come a long way, but I didn't mean to cause an upset."

I kept quiet, but vigilant.

"I came up on him, surprising him something awful. He was after me so fast I couldn't think but he chased me down and he… he was choking me. I couldn't breathe, sir, I couldn't."

The poor boy sure sounded rattled enough. But, thin as he seemed, I just didn't see how he was the one left breathing. "Then how did he end up dead?"

I think I could hear him swallowing. "A rock. I grabbed a rock."

"Where's your saber?"

"He threw it in the trees. I, I'm so sorry. I never wanted to kill anyone." I could hear a faint swishing, and I wondered if he was shaking his head that violently. "I didn't want to be here and I didn't want to kill no one." His voice was shaky and almost muffled, like he had a hand or arm covering it. If he wasn't a soldier, I would have guessed that he was crying. He still sounded torn up over it, though, and I was glad for his remorse.

I liked the idea of him not wanting to kill anyone, and I really liked the idea of him with no weapon.

"Please don't shoot me!" he begged.

"You planning on hitting anyone else with a rock tonight?"

"No sir."

"Then I ain't gonna shoot ya," I said, slipping my gun back into its holster. "And you might as well take those boots. They're no use to him now."

I didn't hear a sound until I backed away from the body. The boy crept back, slowly, and once he came close enough I could see that he was watching me even while untying the laces.

If I was gonna shoot him, he'd be dead already. He didn't know that though, so I tried to put him at ease. "Did you bring a blanket with you?" I asked, and could just make out the shaking of his head. "Then you might as well take his coat too. Keep yourself warm tonight."

He stared, as well as anyone could stare in this darkness, first at me and then back at the body. I wondered if he was afraid to touch it. Hell, he was the one who killed him. Then again, taking boots was one thing, but undressing a corpse was another. I didn't really want to do it either, but I'd probably had more experience with dead bodies.

As I crouched beside the man, the clouds were upon us and any faint light was erased from the clearing and, it felt, the whole world. It was so dark my eyes began to make starbusts of color where there weren't any.

I worked by feel, slipping the cold brass buttons through the fabric of the coat. The designs on the buttons felt familiar under my thumb, and I began to wonder if this was a man from my own regiment.

Who was missing? Who hadn't I seen today? I couldn't think of anyone.

Finally, I pulled the sleeves from somebody's darling and held up the coat.

"Here," I said, "I'm holdin' it out," but the weight of it remained heavy in my hand.

I could hear his heavy breaths and soft grunts, and I wondered if he was still tugging at those laces.

"How do them boots fit?"

"Don't know yet, sir," he said, and I could hear the effort behind his words. His nerves were frayed, either from killing a man or getting caught, or both.

I backed up, giving him his space. "You seem mighty shook up. You ever killed a man before?"

"Yes sir," he grunted, "when I had to."

"But it bothers you?"

"With all due respect, sir, it should bother you too."

I wasn't expecting to hear anything like that out of someone so eager not to get shot. Especially since I was an officer with a gun.

"Never said it doesn't. I've just had practice with it, is all."

"I don't think it's something we should have to practice at all. Seems to me, we're fighting over slaves but putting bullets in men that shoulda been our brothers."

I tipped that over in my mind a bit. I liked the idea, but not his tone, so I answered with a steel edge to my voice. "You got something more to say, soldier?"

"Just don't like killin', sir," he said, not sounding so much like he was pickin' a fight anymore.

I nodded, even though it was pointless. I did think, though, that maybe this boy wasn't just a coward.

I was growing tired of standing and staring into a darkness that showed me nothing, so I backed up until I hit one of the wide trees that surrounded us, and slid down onto the damp grass.

After a few moments of reflection, I said, "Me neither, boy. Me neither."

"I'm no boy," he said in a low but defiant voice, and I almost chuckled at the sound of it. He certainly sounded like one, talking back like that.

"You're a Private, ain't ya?" He was too young to be anything else.

"Yes sir, Private Edward Masen, Forty-third—"

"That's alright," I called out, stopping him. I was cultivating a healthy amount of respect for this Private Masen, and I didn't want to be able to identify him too well. "I don't need the details, boy." I didn't even want his full name but, should any of the other officers check up on their men, but I supposed that I could conveniently find that I'd forgotten it.

"I've been nineteen since the spring," he said, still sore.

"That's young in my book."

"What about you?" he challenged. "You seem pretty young to have a star."

I raised a hand to my collar, fingering the brass star there. He had a point. And, for someone with so many good ideas, maybe he was older than his years gave him credit for. My age and rank was one of my least favorite conversations, though, so for a while I said nothing. I didn't move from the tree I had turned into a backrest, and he didn't move any either. There was a slow, weighted silence between us, where I could hear his loud breathing ease up.

Eventually I asked, "Those boots helping any?"

"Some."

"Well come get the coat, then." I was pretty cold myself, but I had a blanket waiting for me back at camp. I'd go once the sky opened up again.

I heard him shift himself, and the crunching of twigs under his new boots as he made his way toward me.

After a few cautious steps he asked, "Where are you at, sir?"

I told him I was across the clearing, sitting against a tree that smelled like a Mulberry. I kept talking, and for lack of anything better to say told him the dumbest details of how my Mama's peach trees smelled better, just so he could follow the sound of my voice until he reached the coat. When he did, he sat down next to me and leaned himself against my tree.

I held the coat over to him, and when he felt it he reached up to take it. With a bit of fumbling he took the coat and pushed his hand into mine, shaking it.

"Pleased to meet you, sir."

"Likewise. I'm Whitlock, Major Jasper Whitlock."

There was another amicable pause, because even though I was feeling rather friendly toward this Masen feller for not wanting to kill me, I wasn't quite sure what to say to him. Everything running through my mind sounded like, _so, running away? _or _how do you expect to find work without discharge papers? _and none of that sounded like the right thing to say.

Instead, he broke the silence first, saying, "So, you're from Georgia then?" which was as good a place to start as any.

"Naw, South Carolina. Just lucky enough to have a few of their trees. My Mama was awful fond of 'em."

"Well I'm still right jealous, sir. Their peaches are quite a treat."

"They sure are. We planted them for the womenfolk. My Ma made the best damn pies this side of the Mississippi."

"I'll have to take your word for it," he said, and I could hear his smile in his voice. "I learned long ago not to question a man's Mama, or her pies."

I chuckled at that, hard enough to feel my spine knocking against the rough bark of the tree, but I didn't mind. He chuckled along until mine faded out, and then we were left in another dark, empty silence. The night wind that slipped between the trees reached us and bristled at my collar, sending the cold down to all sorts of unpleasant places under my coat. I shuffled over toward him to put the tree between me and the wind, but he didn't budge. Huddlin' up helped us both keep warm, anyway.

Eventually I was situated enough to ask, "What about you, Private? You got a crop?"

"Oh, no crops sir. We do have a few trees – though nothing with fruit, mind you. And mighty dangerous ones at that."

I had to admit, that caught my interest. "What made a few barren trees so dangerous?"

There was a pause followed by a sigh that sounded like it belonged to fond memories, and I knew this would be entertaining.

He started in on a tale about how his older brother had gotten stuck up in this tree and broke his leg jumping down. Some years later, he'd tried his own luck, only to break his arm falling out of it. O' course, being boys, they made up wild stories to tell their baby sis about how that tree was possessed and condemned and if the evil tree spirit could get the best of them, she had best not even go near it.

He seemed pretty pleased with himself by the end of the story. "And she still hasn't. To this day, little Alice refuses to even fan herself under that tree."

"But I bet you could get up that thing in a heartbeat, these days," I said, guessing that it probably wasn't so big or fierce anymore.

"Oh sure but, you know what? We got her so spooked, I almost believe that damn tree has it out for us now."

At that point he laughed, all quiet, but I could feel his back bumping up against the tree and his arm shaking against mine, so I laughed along. As a kid, I had sure told my own sister enough ghost stories to give myself nightmares.

It felt good to laugh – not to worry about if it was forced, or if it would work up the men's morale. We laughed just to laugh, and I was glad for it.

His long story also gave me a chance to take note of his accent. Sometimes he smoothed out all his letters, making him sound downright local, but it was damn near impossible to know what state he hailed from. Hell, sometimes his words were so crisp they sounded damned northern.

"Say," I said, "how come you've got such a complicated accent?"

"Oh," he said, not laughing anymore, "yes. People ask all the time. My father is a financier, lending out money for estates and such. I used to travel with him, so instead of picking up Mother's accent, I picked up a little of everybody's."

"And you really traveled that far?"

"Yes, sir. Father had business in five different states. This was long before the war, mind you. If it was a poor crop year, he could still take in money from the industry up north and lend it out in the south. I helped business quite a lot."

"Huh." I thought that over. "He sounds like quite a smart man."

"Sure is. That's why I can't wait to be done with this war and back running the numbers again."

Ah, I told myself, that sure explains the employment situation, and why he was so eager to get back there. He had all these people waiting on him, who likely missed and loved him.

Maybe if I had family or a woman waiting on their front porch for me I'd be wanting to run away too. As it was, Daddy turned real sour after Mama died and Rosie went and found herself a nice blacksmith to marry. A military career seemed like a respectful-enough reason to get me out of Daddy's house, so I went off to military school and then to war.

I didn't know then how badly war would sit with my conscience. Still, though, there was no one peeking out their lace curtains for my long-awaited arrival, so I figured this was as good a life as any.

As I stared into the blackness around us, that thought made me wonder aloud.

"So, you got yourself a sweetheart back home, Private?"

"Ahhh," he said, drawing out the word like he needed the time to pick out his words. "Sure, I've got a lady friend."

"Try again, Private," I laughed, "with a little more enthusiasm this time."

"Oh, no sir. I've got one for sure, and she is quite lovely. She made me promise not to get myself killed out here, and I'm thinking I had better listen."

"Sure," I said, "If I had myself a girl, that might be a demand I'd listen to. The missus makes the rules, and all."

"Eh." I felt him shrug before he asked, "So you haven't picked up a one for yourself?"

"A girl? Naw. Spend too much time pointing a gun to keep one around." Not that I hadn't picked one up for a night or so, but what soldier hadn't? "Besides, your gal's got good enough advice for us all."

"Yes, sir, that's one request I'm happy to follow."

"You know, you'll have better luck staying alive if you learn to shoot men before their hands are at your throat." I said it lightly but, the truth is, I was curious to get back on the subject. None of the other men with a sweetheart waiting for them would hesitate to kill another man that stood between him and his gal. What made this boy so remorseful? Or was it just cowardice, like I'd thought?

This wasn't a conversation he was too fond of, the way he ummed and ahhhed before saying a damn thing. If he'd been one of my own men I'd never have pushed it, but I reckoned he'd be on his way before morning, and if I overstepped my bounds he could just bid me farewell. So when he still didn't say anything, I asked again.

"Why won't you shoot a man who'd just as soon shoot you?"

I heard him suck in a deep breath, shaky like the ones he was huffin' in when I first found him. Finally, in a voice that seemed heavy with guilt, he spoke.

"It's an awful thing to do to a man, any man. The sounds, and the smell. The look in their eye when they know they're going to die – it doesn't matter what state they call home, inside they're all crying out, likely to their mothers. And to die here, in battle, leagues away from anyone who truly knows or loves you, I don't think it possible to be any more… alone."

His words echoed in my mind. _Alone._ Maybe if it had been light enough to watch him as he spoke I wouldn't have noticed the tremor in his voice. But out here, in this cold, barren clearing where my tree and his voice were the only two things I could be sure of, his words sounded as pained as my own thoughts. I nodded along, even though he couldn't see me. Everything he'd said had been completely and undeniably true.

This stranger, this soldier, knew the horrors that laid upon my conscience. He had a better idea, even, than Pete. This was someone I could talk and commiserate with, so I offered up a few words of my own. "You kill a man, you suffer right along with him."

For a very loud moment of silence he said nothing, but then I heard a low but hearty, "Amen."

I knew it made no sense – hell, I'd never even be able to recognize Private Masen after tonight, but I was overcome with fondness for him. This boy understood me better than any in my own regiment. What I wouldn't give to have that kind of understanding out on the field – to know that he wouldn't judge me when I held back, and would grieve with me when I had no choice not to. It sounded like a Godsend. It sounded like… liberation.

He cleared his throat loudly, probably uncomfortable with having said so much, but he knew I agreed so I said no more. No need to dwell on uncomfortable truths.

Despite the tree blocking the wind from our backs, the chill had still seeped through my clothes and I leaned further into him for the heat that our shoulders were sharing. I felt him shiver, and then I did the same.

"Shouldn't you be heading back to camp, Major?"

I looked across the clearing, towards where the fires should be blazing past the trees, but even they were dim. More time must have passed than I'd realized.

"Too dark now," I said. "If the moon shows me a path I'll take it, but I'd rather not stumble about like a blind fool." In truth, I probably could have found my way by memory, but it seemed unnecessary. And this remarkable boy was better company than I had waiting for me there, anyhow. I could brave a little cold. "What about you?"

"Oh," he hummed. "Same. I'll rest here tonight."

"Good," I said quietly. "We can keep each other company."

"I'll be glad of it. It's been so strange, not finding a soul to speak to for days."

For some reason, it bothered me greatly to think of him all alone. Too long without another person could make time and, so, life seem empty. I hated the thought of that fate for this sensitive soldier.

I brought up questions about his family – their names and hobbies and childhood stories – and we were quickly back to laughing over all the improprieties we'd committed behind closed doors, and sighing over the kind words our Mamas used to tell us. I was quite the prankster in my school years, seeing as how I could charm myself out of any trouble, and I filled the blinding darkness with the fibs and excuses I'd gotten away with – and the few that earned me a lickin'. He told me about his sister's horrendous attempts at the piano and how he and his brother had an easy job keepin' the suitors away when she did it for them with that tortured instrument.

I told him a little about commanding a unit, about the overbearing responsibility and the men's resentment of my age. Mostly, though, he seemed to know that I didn't want to dwell on talk of war or politics, and after that we sure never brought up the men from our own battalions. Wasn't the point to forget all that?

Either way, I found it surprisingly easy to enjoy myself with this boy as we talked mostly of the good things we had waiting for us – his list much longer than mine, o' course. I could see why he was in such a hurry to get back to it.

Even as we yawned our way through conversation, I let his words fill the darkness with an image of his home, the bold greens and browns of his sister's outrageous dresses that matched the hues of his family's land. His descriptions sounded more ornate and lusher than my own home, but quite beautiful.

Maybe it's that I just longed for decent company, but as the night stretched on I thought to myself that this young feller and I would be fast friends any old time or place. In fact, I almost wished I could recognize him after this night so that we could pick up on this fledgling friendship.

My posture slipped against the tree as I grew more and more tired, and as our shoulders pressed harder against each other's I knew he was fighting away at fatigue too. I had had my eyes closed for some time, but eventually our words were few and far between and we sank down to sleep. I fully expected him to be gone before sunrise, but we could not delay the inevitable, and I would not be good company much longer.

I laid along the ground, propping my head against a root, and from his breathing it sounded like he did the same.

I wrapped my arms around my chest, wishing for the first time that night that I had the luxuries of my own camp. Just hearing the rustling of the dead soldier's coat as Private Masen pulled it over himself made me shiver. I curled my face against my own shoulder and shut my eyes, willing the sleep that was so close to finally come.

"Sir?" I heard him whisper.

"Yes?" I asked, rubbing my palms against my arms to create some heat.

"We can… share the coat, if you'd like."

I protested – I had fallen asleep in worse – but I heard him sliding along the ground anyway. He settled the coat over both of us, but it wasn't the wool that soothed me so much as his warm body underneath it with me. We were lying quite close, but still left with enough space to retain our dignity. On our sides we could both fit under the coat and I could feel his body heat and mine trapped and mingling. It warmed me immeasurably, far more than just the coat would have, and I sighed contentedly and thanked him.

Tucking my head under the wool, I tried to sleep again, but I could feel the tremor of his shivers through the fabric. I was quite comfortable, so why was he still chilled? I reached a hand out of our cozy oven and skimmed along the edge of the coat, tracing its length to its edge, barely covering his chest. On my end, my back was fully covered.

"Soldier," I said, surprised, "there ain't no reason to freeze yourself."

I wondered if his generosity was accidental. Reaching across his chest I gave the coat a tug, pulling it fully over him. Of course that left a nice gap at my back for the wind to breech, but I found that if I slid forward just enough, we could both be alright. I kept an arm slung over his body to ensure that he had enough fabric while I fidgeted myself into position.

We had crossed the boundary of propriety, I knew, but I would not let this sweet boy freeze on my watch. Besides, lying as close as I was – so close that if I took a deep breath I could feel the buttons of my coat pressing into his back – I was warmed like his mere presence was a crackling fire. We'd surely be comfortable, this way.

As I arranged our makeshift blanket over us, I felt the lighted touch of his fingers around my arm. I stilled, thinking maybe I'd gone too far.

He turned his head toward me, but his whisper was still faint. "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it, soldier," I said, relaxing my arm against his firm chest as I finished covering us. It felt oddly comfortable there, holding him against me. My knees curled into the space behind his, conserving heat, and I couldn't deny it felt good to share such a relaxed moment with him. I hadn't been this close to another person since I'd come to Virginia, maybe longer. His hair smelled of woodfire smoke and moss, and his breathing was deep and calm under my arm.

I thought maybe he'd let me fall asleep like this, wrapped around him – just for warmth and, if I'm honest, the sense of peace it gave me. I didn't need to tell him that though.

His soft voice, deeper and rougher now that he was sleepy, startled my thoughts from me. "And, sir?"

"Yes, Private?" I whispered back.

"Please just call me Edward."

"Alright then, Edward," I said, trying it out. It was a common name, but sounded strong and solid on my tongue. "Call me Jasper."

He said my name back to me on a whisper, and it almost made me shiver. It made my chest tight with a sense of, I don't know, longing? It made me want… something. To be closer to something, maybe to him.

Was it odd to be so fond of someone I couldn't even see? I still felt like I knew him, like he gave me some sense of peace and belonging. And instead of asking me to move my arm, his fingers curled into my coat sleeve and held on, so I gathered he didn't mind.

"Jasper?"

There was that feeling again. "Yes?" I said, dipping my face under the coat and against his broad shoulders so that I could just barely feel the ends of his hair scratching at my face.

"I… I've never lain with a man before."

Well, shit, never lain with a… I shook that thought from my head. He sounded so far away, like he was hiding his own face, but I couldn't fathom why he'd say such a thing. I hadn't… I wasn't trying to do anything to the boy.

"Shit, boy, you ain't laying with one now. We're just gettin' some sleep, is all."

He started moving under my arm so I pulled it back, thinking that whether he thought I did or did not want something, either way I'd gone and upset him. I half expected him to stand up and pull the extra coat with him, but all he did was roll himself over so we could talk face to face. Not that it mattered much, I still couldn't make out his expression to save my life. I tried, squinting across the gap between our noses, trying to see if he was angry or uncomfortable.

I could even feel is breath on my neck, hot against my whiskers and coming in fast breaths, but I couldn't guess what he might want to say.

He let out a big huff of air, but it didn't help him find his voice any. "My coachman told me that sometimes, in a war, men do…"

He faded off there, and I wondered what the hell his coachman would know about white men in war.

I leaned in, trying to hear any damn sound besides his heavy breathing, and nervous all over again that I was about to get an earful and lose this new bit of happiness.

He wasn't saying anything, though, and I didn't even hear a sound before I felt the lightest pressure against my parted lips. Something soft, and warm, and then I felt him take a sharp breath and suck the air right out of my mouth.

It was only then that I really realized what was pressed against my lips: his.

I… I didn't know what to do. I hadn't ever thought of this, but the idea of stopping – Jesus, his lips were soft. I stayed as still as I could, just breathing in and out of his mouth, but the longer I waited the less I wanted to pull away.

His lips felt _good._ Not just warm, but moist and firm and the perfect fit against mine. His lips were extraordinary, I decided, because they managed to touch all the way to my toes which were suddenly awake and wriggling in my boots. My toes wanted me to press back, so I did.

I pushed my lips against his and he twisted, covering my whole mouth with a real, honest-to-God kiss. I closed my eyes – I don't know why, it's not like I could see anyway and my entire body already felt like I had left it behind, but I still squeezed them shut.

He tasted pure, and sweet, better than freshly-baked pie or sweet tea.

I moved my lips against his tentatively, until I realized he was moving his hips just the same. His movements were faint and rhythmical, but he startled me when the back of his hand pressed against my thigh. I couldn't deny that it felt good, though, so I didn't comment.

With the arm I had flung over his waist I traced my hand up his back until I could tangle my fingers in his messy hair. It was soft, thicker than a woman's, but still slipped easily through my fingers.

My hips began to mimic his of their own accord as we kissed and breathed into each other's mouths. One of his hands started pulling at my buttons, but it was only when his other hand joined in that I realized with a shock that the pressure against my thigh was not his hand at all.

I rolled forward slightly, catching it between our legs, and he moaned into my mouth. It was long and thick and hard, and so very close to my own stiffness that I couldn't help but push my hips a little more insistently against his. We both moaned.

He spread his kisses across my scratchy jaw and neck, pulling at my coat to reach more skin. I yanked at his buttons too until I could feel smooth skin under my fingers. He had a fine line of hair running straight down his chest, slipping under the waist of his trousers. I followed it with my hand, making him gasp and shudder when I slipped just a finger beneath the fabric. His groan was the loudest yet and his kisses grew rougher until I could feel his teeth scraping at my skin.

The sensation excited me, and I wanted to bite back. I wanted to pin him and cover him and rub my body against his until he was taught with pleasure, unable to escape my advances.

I rolled further forward, keeping his body beneath mine. He writhed and pushed up against me, but I was mercilessly rubbing his chest and sucking deeply at his skin, not caring if I left little cherry marks across his smooth skin. His hands reached under my open coat and shirt to scrape his blunt nails down my back, and I groaned into his shoulder.

He reached under the waistband of my trousers, teasing me like I had done to him, before he slipped lower to cover my whole backside. With no warning, he stretched one hand over each half of my ass and pulled me insistently against him, all the while grinding his hips up into my own. By this point my own erection was thick and thrumming with need, especially as it ground down against his. His sharp thrusts got the better of me, and I suddenly felt on the verge of explosion.

He wouldn't let me have it, though. At my swallowed cry of pleasure, he grabbed my hips to push them off of him. As my lips were wrenched away from his delicious collarbone, I let out a groan that was nearly a growl of frustration. I felt his fingers slip to my stomach, quickly tugging at the buttons there.

I don't know why it was that movement that made me pause. I wanted it, wanted him to touch me. I wanted him. But to bare myself to him? I made a grab for his wrist, but he only stopped with that hand. His other slipped between my legs, tapping at my sac before sliding up to squeeze the full length of my needy cock through my trousers

I groaned shamelessly, and Edward lifted his head to whisper one word. "Yes."

"Yes," I panted back, nodding. It felt too good, I couldn't give up the feeling of his hand touching me, teasing me. He felt too good. His hand slipped into my open trousers, tickling my skin until his fingers found my shaft. When he wrapped his bare hand around me I thrust against him, hard, panting and sweating and moaning into his ear.

He was still teasing me, though, because he pulled his hand back out and moved it to push down my trousers. Then he slipped his fingers back between us to work at his own buttons. I helped him free himself, pulling the fabric below his ass as he tugged my own trousers down.

The skin-to-skin contact was unbelievable. Our bodies were slick and moved together just as easily as our cocks as he grabbed at my bare ass to press me even harder against him. His hips were slapping up at mine while he panted and moaned along with me.

Dear God, the sounds this boy – this man – could make. There was nothing boyish about his movements, and nothing feminine either. I felt just as comfortable as I did with women, but it drove my senses wild that I could feel the evidence of his own excitement sliding against mine.

I held onto his hips while I pushed against them. My whole body was tingling and aching for release. To find it I moved a hand between us, intent on grabbing myself, but when he felt my fingers against the weeping head of his cock his fingers gripped my ass tightly and he moaned, "Jasper."

The word was so breathy and strained that my cock throbbed at hearing it. I wrapped a hand around his member, stroking him like I would do to myself.

Again he groaned, "Jasper. Yes!"

I pushed myself against his warm thigh relentlessly, sliding along the slickness I'd created and rubbing at the head of my cock while I worked my hand over him.

Just as I could take no more, his bucking hips stilled and he cried out the only real word I'd heard from him this whole time.

"Ye-es!"

His cry was loud, and his release was hot, splashing against my stomach as he grunted and trembled.

Awestruck but desperate, I thrust against his firm leg until I, too, was overcome with bliss. I erupted onto him in hot bursts.

I collapsed against his chest, breathless and sweaty, trapping our stickiness between us. It was unpleasant and cooling, but I couldn't force myself up just yet. Instead, I said the only thing that came to mind.

"Edward!"

He grabbed my chin with his fingers and pulled me into a kiss just as desperate as before our release, and I returned it eagerly.

Only then did he slide out from under me, to clean himself up, no doubt.

Crouched on my hands and knees, I patted around the trunk of the tree for the only thing I could think of: moss. Finally finding some, I reached under me to wipe at my stomach and groin. It took quite a bit of moss, which I left in a haphazard pile, but I finally cleaned and dried myself.

Once I'd pulled my trousers back up and buttoned everything as it should be, I called out for Edward. He'd found another tree, but said he was nearly done. Carefully, I made my way to him and sat when he grabbed at my coat to pull me down.

I could hear that he was still out of breath, and we sat quietly leaning against a tree trunk that was thinner than the other. Our entire bodies were aligned from our shoulders to our hips to our knees, and it was several minutes before I felt the ghost pressure of his hand over my knee.

"I enjoyed that," he said, blunt as can be.

I thought it was pretty obvious that we both enjoyed it, but I grunted an affirmation anyway. "So," I asked, "your coachman told you about that?"

He laughed softly. "No. He most certainly did not prepare me for that. That was—" He paused, and I only had a moment to wonder if it was not up to his standards before he continued with "unlike anything I've felt before."

That was certainly true. Something about our… activity had felt more passionate, more charged than when I'd taken ladies to bed. And we hadn't even done nearly so much as that.

"I can still feel it," I said into the darkness. It was easy to admit because I could not see his reaction.

That's when the faint pressure of his hand dropped, letting me feel his whole handprint against my leg.

"Me too," he whispered. "I think you tired me out, though."

I chuckled lowly, pleased with myself. "My most humblest apologize, Private."

He laughed aloud, squeezing my leg in his hot grip in retaliation for my flippancy. I grabbed it from my leg, but held on fast.

"Sleep, then?" I asked, and he hummed along.

I slid away from the tree, settling against the ground and pulling him with me to lay with his back to my front, as we had before. I made sure the extra coat I'd carried over was draped across us both, and then wrapped my arm across his waist to clutch at his hand once more.

I fell asleep with his fingers twined through mine.

My first thought when I felt the morning sun bright on my eyelids was, _Jesus, my back is sore._

But then, I remembered why I was sleeping against a bumpy tree root and, more importantly, who I was sleeping against it with.

Edward.

I knew he'd be gone, disappearing with the night like so many other good dreams, but I still had to look for myself. So when I saw a young man in front of me I had to blink to make sure it wasn't just wishful thinking laying there.

It was him, it had to be, and he'd somehow turned toward me during the night. I had only seen his features briefly the night before, but it was enough to know he was striking. I had seen the full lips and shape of his face. But now, this young man was gorgeous. I recognized his cheek bones, but his jaw was just as sharp and defined and his lips had the sloping curves of the Virginia hills.

What shocked me the most, though, was what had been missing from our night together. The colors.

Edward was made of colors like I'd never seen before. His hair was the same coppery color as the back of my coat buttons. For a soldier, he had the smoothest, palest skin, like a pail of perfectly fresh milk all the way from his forehead to his neck with the grey coat pulled tightly around it. He had tiny freckles above his nose and stubble below it that looked like cinnamon or cocoa sprinkled across flour. His lips…they were red but not just red. Rosie had a hat that color that she called cerise. They reminded me of the reds and pinks in a sunset that overlap, with just a hint of the deeper purple.

I blinked against the palette of his face, but he was still stunning even after I cleared the bleary sleep from my eyes. I thought I was content just to watch him lay there, stuck in a brief moment of peace in the middle of this wretched war. When he didn't wake under my watchful eye, though, I grew impatient.

I had no idea what he'd think of last night, of the things we did, but I couldn't bring myself to be ashamed. God help me, pressing myself against him was the most invigorating thing I'd felt in months of battle, and I wanted to feel it at least one more time.

I rolled carefully under our makeshift blanket, careful not to pull the warmth away from his sensitive neck. Quickly, and softly, I aligned our bodies and pressed my lips against his.

He didn't stir, just puffed a breath against my mouth, and I kissed him harder. Watching him sleep was nothing compared to the thought of laying here with him, awake.

I moved my mouth against his, letting the tip of my tongue stroke him into wakefulness. Soon he was inhaling deeply, and eventually pulled away from me with his eyelids flickering in confusion. Behind them I saw another color, something bright, but couldn't make it out until he opened his eyes fully and fixed them on me.

Green. Green like springtime grassfields or the fresh buds of a rosebush. Would this soldier never cease to astound me?

I was still transfixed on this new color when he moved, kissing me back eagerly. I heard him take sharp breaths through his nose so as not to pull away, and I did the same. Reaching under the borrowed coat, I wrapped my arm around his waist and pulled him flush against me. I felt his faint moan in my mouth, and kissed him back harder. In truth, I was happy to pick up where we left off, relieved that the spell of wonder cast over us last night had not been lifted.

Soon, too soon, he pulled back, but the grin across his face was good enough compensation. He looked thrilled, radiating enthusiasm from merely inches away, and I couldn't help being washed over with his glow.

"You're still here," he whispered in awe.

"So are you," I whispered back.

He blinked excitedly, smiling brightly and unashamed, and I couldn't believe I had missed all these glorious looks in the darkness last night. Even the thought of one expression, of the pure openness that must have shone in his eyes as he gasped in pleasure, was enough to make me tight all over.

His smile faded and his lips twisted thoughtfully. "I think I'd better go relieve myself, though, before… well, as soon as possible."

"You'll come back though?"

He nodded, saying, "Absolutely," and urged his lips against mine yet again. I let my eyes fall closed, kissing him back with gusto. When I felt him pull away, I left them closed, slumping against the ground and basking in the feeling of contentedness as I heard his borrowed boots stomp away.

I took in one long, crisp breath, finally taking a moment to think. I think I was so relieved and excited that he hadn't crept away in the night, that the intimacy of our night had come rushing back. Who knew kissing another man would feel so damn good? When he came back, I wanted to do all the things I hadn't done last night. I wanted to watch my fingers slide across his lips, and see him squeeze his eyes as he moaned. I wanted to see those eyes silently begging me for more, and what the rest of his body looked like exposed.

I almost couldn't believe that I wanted to experience all that again. It was hard to know if it was his honesty, his reverence for life, or something else I couldn't place that had drawn me to him initially, but through the act of touching we had elevated ourselves to something beyond mere brothers in arms. We were men… together. Here in this tiny clearing, waking up next to Edward had felt as natural as breathing.

All too soon, an urgent sensation cut through my thoughts, and I knew I'd better find a tree to piss on too. I swiped the coat away and pushed myself up. I didn't want to soil the tree we had made our bed, so I headed to the trees clear across from where we'd slept.

Emptying my bladder against a young Mulberry felt better than I thought it would, relieving all the pressure that had been masked by a separate, but neighboring tension. It was only when I was buttoning myself back up that I really began to look around. The sunlight was bright but thin, probably less than an hour old, and the birds were starting to announce the new day. The trees surrounding us were tall and thick, and without the glowing lights of the fires it was hard to make out my camp through all the branches.

I turned, looking back in the direction he had walked, wondering if Edward was back yet. I couldn't see him, though, so I assumed he had ventured off toward the stream I knew lay deeper into this crop of trees.

Something else caught my attention, though, something light and large beside the muddy roots of another tree. Stepping toward it, I was suddenly assaulted with another, less pleasant, memory from the night before.

The body. The soldier that Edward had killed. I crossed to it quickly, but the man's face was turned away so I had to circle to his other side. As soon as I looked down, a gasp rose in my throat.

The broad nose, the high forehead – this was a face I knew.

For a moment I blinked, seeing nothing, but could practically feel the rush of vital blood to my limbs and fingertips as they tingled with shock and grief. Then my vision returned, and so did his face.

Pete.

Why? That was the only thing I could think – why was Pete dead? And by Edward's hand? It didn't make sense. How could the one other man in my regiment who wasn't eager for bloodshed have attacked another soldier just for startling him?

Pete. Forbes Peterson. My only friend… before last night. One friend taken away by the other. Was Edward even my friend? Was that all he was?

Questions swirled in my head, making it hard to think. Why was Pete dead? What had really happened?

Through my mental haze I heard the snap of twigs beneath Edward's boots, and pulled my head up, intent on questioning him again. As soon as I saw him, though, the answer was clear. It seems Edward had one more color I hadn't seen yet. Blue.

Dark blue, like the troubled skies before a storm. Blue like the middle of a lake deep enough to drown in. Blue like the coat of the slave-loving Union Army.

Edward was a goddamned Yankee.

I had been fooled, but how could that be? I scanned my memories, trying to pick out when I'd see him wearing the light grey that matched my own Confederate jacket. I couldn't, though. The only time I'd really been able to see him was this morning when – damnit – he had Pete's grey coat pulled up to his chin. We'd avoided the technicalities of our lives so as to dwell on the experiences. But everything made more sense now, even his strange accent. Maybe I'd just been so damn eager to believe he was a fellow secessionist, like me.

I felt embarrassed, like the wool had been pulled over my eyes, but also surprised and somewhat… betrayed.

It was so clear, looking at him now. His light pants may have looked grey under the moonlight, but shame on me for thinking the deep shadow of his coat was just a splash of mud.

I was fit to be tied, and I pulled my pistol from my leg where it was still fastened. Raising it, I pointed it directly at the Union soldier in front of me and spat, "You're a filthy liar."

His steps halted immediately, and he raised his hands into the air with another pair of boots dangling from the laces off his finger. His own boots, probably. He must have retrieved them from by the stream. With a tip of his hand, he let them fall, clumping in the dead leaves at his feet.

His bright eyes wavered back and forth between my face and my gun. Finally, he met my eyes and asked in a tight, troubled voice, "Jasper?"

Hearing my name pass his lips, so reminiscent of when he'd whispered his pleasure into my ear, tore at me. I felt like I had lost everything in the span of a few minutes. All at once, my oldest and newest friends had been taken from me; Pete to the heaven that awaited him, and Edward to the enemy.

Except that he had been the enemy all along.

I readjusted my gun, balancing it with my other hand, keeping it trained on him. "You're just a lousy Mudsill."

His eyes widened and he looked flustered, and alarmed. "Jasper," he said again, more sympathetically, as he moved to take another step toward me.

I lurched the gun in his direction, telling him to stay back.

"Jasper," he whispered, still holding his hands in the air. "I thought you knew. I thought—" he dropped his eyes, looking away. "I thought you didn't care."

How could I not care? He wasn't some poor, homesick brother in arms, he was a damned Bluebelly. And a Yank this close to our camp, alone, meant he was most likely a scout. Damn him.

"Please," he started begging, "listen to me. I tried to tell you last night."

That sparked another memory.

Indeed, he had. And I, like the damned fool I was, had stopped him.

"Are you a copperhead?" I asked, desperately holding out for some saving grace in all this. Maybe if he was a confederate sympathizer, none of this would matter.

Sadly, he shook his head, still staring at the damp ground. So much for the easy way out.

"Who's your commanding officer?" I demanded, wondering which General he would be tattling to.

"Colonel Cullen, of the forty-third Pennsylvania Infantry."

A good soldier – I'd heard of him, and did not relish the thought of meeting him in battle.

The way Edward was looking at me though, frightened and dismayed, tugged at my chest. His young face was watching me with the same honesty I'd heard from him all night. My anger dropped away as I realized he wasn't at fault any more than I was. He really had tried to tell me. But that didn't change the fact that he was my enemy, and on a reconnaissance mission that had yielded him plenty of information.

I cursed silently, not knowing who was to blame – him, myself, or God for putting us in this miserable circumstance.

Really, I could not blame him. But I couldn't let him go either.

"Edward," I said, finally speaking his name aloud, and I was shocked to hear that it held all the emotions I felt. I had such a fondness for this young, beautiful soldier, but also a duty to all my men. The two, it seemed, were mutually exclusive. "I can't let you go."

"Are you going to shoot me?" he asked timidly, just as he had last night.

I didn't answer, because I didn't know.

Without words, or dropping his hands, Edward began to step toward me. I tried to motion for him to stay put, but he took no heed.

"Jasper, you don't have to do this."

"I do," I said, though it pained me. "I can't let you go."

"You can," he promised. "I'll walk away and you can pretend this never happened."

"I can't!" I said, my hands tensing as he came closer. "I can't let you report back. I have an entire regiment to think of."

With a heavy sigh, he avoided my eyes and said, "Okay."

That shocked me, and my grip slackened. "Okay?"

Looking up to me again, I could see that his eyes were bright, glassy, and oh-so-green. "I understand, I do. Just like you can't let me tell the Colonel what I've seen, I can't not tell him. Either way, one of us is guilty of getting our men killed."

I think his words hurt so much because they were true. By dropping our duties, one of us was sure to have more lives on our conscience.

"Then we are at an impasse," I whispered across the short distance left between us.

He shook his head sadly. "I'm not going to fight you. I have no weapon."

It didn't escape my notice that he clearly did not need a weapon to fell me, but I didn't say it.

Stepping up to place his chest directly against the barrel of my pistol, he watched me with wet, resigned eyes.

"It's okay, Jasper. I always knew I would die in this war, and there are other scouts that most likely know what I do."

All I could think in that moment was to not squeeze the trigger. With his proximity, I could smell his earthy scents, and hear his rapid, shallow breathing. Even as he offered me his life, all I wanted to do was protect it. My whole body was tense and shaking with the thought of losing him and I stared back into his stunning face helplessly, horrified that he would offer up himself to this miserable bloodbath.

"Edward, no," I whispered. "You said yourself, you don't want to die here."

Slowly, carefully, he moved his raised hands to my face, sliding his palms along my cheeks before looping his arms behind my neck. His chest pressed more firmly against my gun, pressing the butt of it into my own ribs, and I silently prayed that there would be no accidents here today.

When he pressed his lips and nose against my cheek, I could feel the moisture from his first tears wetting my skin.

Instead of sounding frightened, or nervous, he answered with an air of soothing affection. "It's okay," he said, "I don't feel alone anymore."

My breath caught, hearing him voice the sensation I had been feeling all night, and those were the words that broke me. Wrenching the gun from between our chests, I tossed it to the ground, several feet away. I wrapped both arms around his chest, pulling him tightly to me. After the first few, I stemmed the tears that were pressing behind my eyes, and wiped them off on his damned deep blue shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I whispered into his neck. I was sorry for everything – for mistrusting him and scaring him and threatening him.

Not for knowing him, though. Now that I knew he understood this connection, that he felt it too, I wouldn't give up our night together for anything.

He hugged me back, the buttons of our coats clacking and our boots straddling each other's. He dragged his lips to mine, kissing me with a desperate aggression that I returned.

Again, he pulled away too soon, breathing deeply but looking concerned.

"Japser," he whispered, and I loved the sound of my name in his voice. Coming from him, it felt so personal, so intimate.

So I whispered his name back. "Edward."

The steep angle of his bronzed eyebrows didn't lessen. "I have to go."

Even though I knew he was right, my fingers dug into the thick wool of his coat. Still, I nodded. It was too dangerous for him to be here in the daylight, and I had a regiment to oversee.

Despite knowing I should send him away, into the thick growth of trees where he would remain hidden and safe, I couldn't force myself to let go. I felt like I should do something, give him something, to at least show him what our meeting meant to me. Except I had nothing to give him besides the clothes off my back.

Instead, I kissed him again, letting my tongue mingle with his.

He surged forward, pressing his open mouth even more firmly against mine. It felt like goodbye.

When he reached up to my ear, I felt the stain of his tears once again and the faint brush of his skin as he whispered, "Remember me."

I nodded, swiping my cheek against his wet one. "You too," I said, choked by our farewell. "You keep yourself alive, and so you can remember this, you hear?"

He nodded too, and when he pushed himself away to wipe his tears, he didn't look back.

Hoofing it toward the trees, his shoulders slumped with pain and dejection, and the sudden separation tugged painfully at the tension in my chest.

"Edward!" I called out, desperate to stop him.

He stopped, turning his head only, and looked back over his shoulder. That's when I realized that that was what I wanted – just one more look at his beautiful face, his colors. The grief in his eyes didn't hide their grassy color, and his sunset lips still stood out against his fair skin. I stared hard, memorizing his face for future memories.

When he saw that I didn't actually have anything to say he nodded, understanding. His mouth opened, briefly, before shutting again. Several seconds passed of us merely taking in the sight of the other before he suddenly said, "We'll come from the east."

With that, his head snapped forward and he began to weave through the trees. I watched him go, and saw him crouch to pick up something, probably his lost saber. Only once he was out of sight did I turn towards my own camp.

On my way, I picked up his forgotten boots.

As I trudged along, my boots felt leaden and my head hurt like I'd swum too deep in cold water. I felt guilty for thinking that I had traded away Pete for Edward, especially since I'd only enjoyed Edward's company for one night, but it still felt true.

I couldn't believe I had to go back and face those men without him. I couldn't believe that everything would be the way it was before except, now, without Pete.

There had been other scouts, Edward had said. They had been just as likely to stumble upon Pete. By that same token, they would most likely be giving Colonel Cullen my whereabouts as well, and his army would be coming for us, either way. By sparing Edward's life, perhaps I had just reduced the death toll by one. And a significant one, at that.

They were solid excuses, but I knew they weren't the truth – at least not the whole truth. I let Edward go because I cared too much to shoot him.

In certain moments of clarity on my walk back, I couldn't help but feel grateful. Despite the woes of the night, I had still gained something I'd never thought I'd find here: a true friend. Someone who understood and cared for me as more than just a commanding officer. He knew my thoughts and priorities and misgivings. He understood my childhood and my hesitance to kill, and the pressure I felt at commanding so many men at such a young age. He truly knew me…

… and so I was no longer alone.

That one thought gave me the strength to return to face my men, and this god-forsaken, interminable war.

* * *

**Civil War Slang:**

War Between States - Southern term for the Civil War

Jackanapes – young soldier who was promoted too fast

Paleface – new soldier, inexperienced

Blowhard – braggart, bully, bigshot

Bummer – loafer, someone who lags behind to forage

Pig sticker - bayonet

Fit to be tied – really angry

Mudsill – derogatory term for Union soldiers

Bluebelly – derogatory term for Union soldiers

Copperhead – Northern person with Southern, anti-Union sympathies

Hoofing it - marching

* * *

**I want to point out, just for historical coolness, that there really was a battle at Five Forks, VA in 1865. ****Also, when I was looking up Civil War slang and came across 'paleface' and then 'copperhead', I just knew this thing had to be written. But, alas, Edward is a copperhead in appearances only.  
**

**Endless thanks to ydidred for her charitable contribution towards fighting cancer and for the opportunity to write this little story, and to my lovely beta, Elvelethril.**


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